


Captured Soul

by T Fowler (serafina20)



Series: Unbroken Path [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-12
Updated: 2006-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serafina20/pseuds/T%20Fowler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester investigate a series of ice pick killings at a New Haven inn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captured Soul

It was a little bar in the middle of nowhere. Bad jukebox, two pool tables, desperate women, and drunk truckers. They were easy to hustle and, by the time Dean made his final push, too drunk to really get what was going on. Dean cleaned them out in less than two hours and, almost four hundred dollars richer, swaggered back to where Sam was nursing a beer and pursuing the hot sheets for their next job.

"Find anything?" Dean asked. He plopped on the stool across from his brother and snagged Sam's beer, taking a swig.

Sam shook his head, but said, "Yeah, I think so." He rubbed the nape of his neck and slid the paper across the table.

"Connecticut," Dean read.

"New Haven, to be specific." He tapped the paper. "There's a bed and breakfast that's having some problems keeping their patrons alive. Six people murdered in the past year."

"Six?"

"All couples."

"There a pattern to it? Married couples, cheating spouses, honeymooners?”

Sam shook his head again. "Paper didn't say."

"The door was locked from the inside, no signs of forced entry, blah, blah," Dean read, skimming the details. "Cause of death... sharp object inserted through ear causing sever hemorrhaging. Police suspect an ice pick. That’s weird."

"Yeah. Unusual and disgusting."

Dean frowned. "They're sure that no one working at the inn did it?"

"Pretty certain," Sam replied. "There's no motive or evidence. And nothing was stolen or missing from any of the victims. They were killed in the middle of the night, nothing taken, nothing disturbed but them. I mean, yeah, it could just be some psychopath who gets off on it or something, but it feels like one of ours."

Dean looked at him sharply, eyes narrowing. "You having dreams or something?"

"No. No, nothing like that." Sam was obviously troubled, his forehead furrowed, eyes shadowed by his overlong bangs. "It just... there's something that jumps out at me. I can't explain it."

"Yeah well, one day, you better learn." He growled softly and drained the beer. "Well, let's hit the road; we're going to Connecticut."  
***  
The inn was one of those froufrou little bed and breakfast things that were supposed to be romantic and cute. Dean had never found them cute; he just found them creepy. Motels he understood. The only interaction you had with anyone who worked there was when you checked in and out, and, sometimes, the maids. It was all impersonal. You did your thing and they let you do yours.

Places like this, though, were too nosy for Dean's taste. It was like staying in someone's house, only you didn't know them. But they were still interested in everything about your life. They were always run by overly friendly women or really gay men, and all the other guests seemed to feel like they had an open invitation to pry into your life. The few times Dean had had to stay in one, he'd almost worn his teeth from the incessant grinding. It wasn't just the constant questions about his life that got to him; it was that fake ass happiness and bubbly demeanor that made him want to puke.

"Looks deserted," he said as he climbed out of the Impala.

Sam closed the door, nodding. "The paper said they'd been closed since the murder. Makes sense; I mean, I wouldn't want to stay in a place six people had been killed and no suspects found."

Dean nodded his head and started for the front door. With any luck, it'd be easy to get inside and they could look around without running into anyone. They'd have to question the manager eventually, but if they could get a sense of what happened without them, so much the better.

The front door was closed, but unlocked. The parking lot had been empty except for a bike. There was a sign on the door saying that the inn was closed until further noticed.

The brothers stepped inside.

"Do people who run these places have any taste?" Dean asked, nose wrinkling at the overabundance of flowers and lace decorating the main lobby.

Sam snorted. "It's supposed to be romantic."

"Yeah, nothing says romance like a lace pillow and an ice pick through your ear." He went to the front desk and rang the bell. "Hello? Anyone here?"

There was a long silence, then footsteps behind them. "Um, hello?" a voice called.

The boys turned to see a young woman walk out of a connecting room.

Well, hello gorgeous, Dean thought giving her a slow once over.

She was young, maybe a year or so younger than Sam. Her clothes screamed college chick, as did the pen stuck behind her ear and the other three in the pocket of her jeans. Her hair was long, dark, going to her waist and falling around her face out of a messy braid. Her eyes were brown. Big. There was a furrow between her eyebrows as she looked at them, suspicious.

“Can I help you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she dropped them and squared her shoulders. Crossed them again.

"Hey," Sam said with a friendly smile. He did friendly and sincere a lot better than Dean did. Dean figured it was because of his baby face and innocent eyes; Sam said it was because he didn't drool over everything with a good pair of tits. "I'm Sam and this is Dean."

"We're reporters," Dean added. "We're doing a story on the murders that happened here. The murders.”

"Uh-huh," she said warily.

Dean glanced at Sam, then added, "The manager, Amanda Wycott, said that someone would be here to give us a tour, tell us what happened? I assume that's you, right?"

A look of something like panic crossed her face, but it quickly faded and was replaced with a smile. "I guess she forgot to tell me. My name is Rachel. I'm the… receptionist. Maid. Um. Receptionist slash maid." She came around the sofa and held her hand out to shake. "I'm surprised Amanda is letting reporters in. She's so afraid that the place will be closed and she'll lose her job. She loves this place."

"Well," Sam jumped in quickly, shaking Rachel's hand, "she said that she hoped that our article would make it clear that people didn't have anything to be afraid of by staying her. You know, Dean and I like solving mysteries like this. Maybe we can help stop the killings."

"Yeah, that's us." Dean gave Rachel his best and most charming smile and squeezed her hand gently. "Investigative reporter sleuths. Just like Superman."

"So, which one of you is Lois Lane?" she replied, her lips curling into a smile.

"That's me," Dean replied. He hadn't let her hand go yet. "You know, I'm all in touch with my feminine side and stuff. Sensitive, considerate, caring."

Rachel laughed. "Right," she drawled, extracting her hand. "Just like Lois. Anyway, um. So, what do you want to know?"

"We'd like to see the rooms, if possible," Sam said. "Get a feel for the place, that sort of thing."

"Okay. I can give you a tour. Tell you what happened. I’ve been.” She hesitated. Shrugged. “I’ve been reading about it. In case… you know. Anyone had questions.”

“That’s be great. Whatever you know would be great,” said Sam.

She smiled.

She had a nice smile.

“Okay, the first murder happened right through there, in the common room." She led them through the lobby into what looked like a living room. There were about four sofas and a few overstuffed chairs. There was more lace and a lot more flowers, plus some dead bark and stuff in little pots on every surface. The floor was hardwood, covered with thick, pinkish rugs. There was a fireplace, empty now, which made the room look colder than it really was.

"I thought the murders were in a bedroom,” Dean said, trying not to gag at the sickly sweet smell coming from the little pots.

She shook her head. "The second two were in bedrooms-two different bedrooms. The first one happened here." She hesitated, then pulled out some index cards from the back pocket of her jeans. Referring to them for a moment, she said, "It happened sometime after midnight. The couple, Jill and James Rogers, had come in late from sightseeing. They'd already eaten dinner, but Charlene, the woman managing it then, brought out some of the pie from dessert. They were alone in here for about… forty-five minutes. Charlene was in her office. When she came out, she found them both dead."

"Did she hear anything?"

"No." Rachel shuffled the index cards, shifting her weight back and forth. "She did say later that she might have heard something like a cry, but she had music on, and her office really isn't close to the common room. There was no break in, but nothing could be pinned on any of the guests or workers."

"What happened to Charlene?" Sam asked.

"She quit about three months later. She said the place gave her the creeps and she always felt like someone was watching her. Besides, she was having nightmares and panic attacks." Rachel shrugged and shook her head before turning away. "They redid the room after it happened. It'd already been sold to someone, they were just waiting for escrow to close. They'd originally said they weren't going to change the décor, and they didn't, except for down here. It was a real shame. This place didn't use to look like a tea cozy threw up in here."

Dean snorted. "You mean, someone did this on purpose recently?"

"Well, you don't know the owners," she said with a crooked smile. "Apparently, they really like their flowers and lace."

"Apparently?" Sam seized on that word before Dean had even finished processing that Rachel had a nice smile to go along with her body. Luckily, one of the Winchester brothers was always on his toes.

Rachel looked uncertain for a moment, then said, "Yeah. I haven't met them yet. Amanda hired me. That's why I have these." She held up the index cards. "Just in case someone asks about the murders you know?"

"Then how do you know what it looked like before?" Dean asked. Something weird was going on here.

She didn't answer, only open and shut her mouth a few times uncertainly. The arms of the sweater she was wearing covered her hands; as she stood there, she tugged on sleeve all the way over and twisted the opening around, covering her hand completely.

"Look," Sam started, but Rachel suddenly said, "I stayed here when I was a kid, about ten years ago. My parents are historians and there's a lot of history around here. When we stayed, it was classy and comfortable. There were still a lot of antiques, but it didn't look like an enchanted forest on crack."

Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged. He still thought something was up, but it wasn't anything in their field. Unless this chick was summoning some ghost, in which case, they better keep a close eye on her.

His brother seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Okay, so, it's different now. Do you have any pictures of the room from before?"

Rachel hesitated. "The police probably do. Aren't you going to talk to them?"

"They just have pictures of the crime scene," Sam answered, smoothly sidestepping the question. "I wanted to look at the differences between the room then and now."

"I'll see what I can do," Rachel said, her voice kind of distant and thoughtful. She looked down at the cards and shuffled them. "Anyway, they were found on the floor next to the couch. There was blood on the floor, and the fire was out."

"It'd been going?" Dean said.

"Um... yeah. Apparently, at the time, Charlene was using the common room to study when no one else was around." She looked at Dean and smiled crookedly. "You know how it is when you've got a paper due."

He shot a look at Sam, who looked amused. "Yeah," Dean said. "Late nights, pots of coffee, all that crap. So, did the police ever say what they thought happened?"

"They almost pinned it on Charlene, but it fell through due to lack of evidence. She quit a few months before the second murder."

"Was that in here, too?" Sam asked. He was prowling the room, touching the walls. There was a look of concentration on his face, brows lowered, mouth turned down in a frown as his hands lightly walked over the walls and he studied the grains of the wood.

"No," Rachel answered. "It was down the hall, in one of the bedrooms."

"Same one as the murder the other day?" said Dean.

She shook her head. "That was upstairs."

"Three different rooms," Dean mused. "Any connection between them?"

"They're all in the same inn. Other than that, no." She tucked a strand of hair behind her head. "Ready for the next room?"

"Let's go."

Rachel led them out of the common room and down the hall. The door was locked, but she pulled a key from her jeans and opened. "After you, gentlemen."

Unlike the lobby and common room, this place was not an absolute disaster. The bed was big enough for two people to really have some fun in, and it wasn't so frilly to make you feel like you were in some old person's bed, either. The flowers were at a minimum since the whole theme of the room looked like it was a seascape or something. Dean couldn't really see himself being happy there, but, given the right chick, it might be worth it.

"Nice," Dean commented. He leapt on the bed, landing on his butt and bounced a few times. Leering at Rachel, he said, "Now this is a fun room."

She rolled her eyes, but leered back. "Yeah, well, two people died in that bed."

"Ah.” He slid off it. "Like, the same mattress?"

"That very one." She glanced at her cards. "Grant Addison and Kimberly Russell. They were here celebrating their second anniversary."

"Married?" Sam asked, prowling the room again.

"No. But they had gotten engaged the night before. He proposed to her while they were out on some kind of cruise. When they came back, he bought champagne for everyone and did a toast. They went walking after dinner, then went to be early. When they didn't come out of their room, they finally knocked. No one answered, so they opened the door and found the couple dead. Ice pick in the ear, no sign of forced entry, nothing missing, no motive, no suspect."

"Did this room change after?" Sam asked, head in the closet.

"I don't... think so," Rachel said slowly. "The rooms are one of the popular things of the inn. The new owners mostly did the common areas, the halls, the dining room, that sort of thing."

Dean crossed the room to his brother. "Getting anything?" he murmured

"Just that the closets are huge." Sam closed the door. "Last room?"

Rachel led them upstairs to yet another room. It was basically the same as the one below, only green. This time, Dean didn't jump on the bed, just turned to their tour guide with a raised eyebrow. "Well?"

"Kendra Nichols and Cecilia Kent," Rachel said. "They were celebrating their sixth anniversary. Two kids, one adopted, one from Cecilia's previous marriage." She shook her head, frowning. "They've been here before, I guess about three years ago. Stayed in this room." Rachel reached up and straightened a photograph that was hanging crookedly on the wall. "They'd been hiking that day, came back in the early afternoon. Spent the rest of the day on the grounds, reading and whatnot. Another guest said they thought they heard a scream, but when they didn't hear anything else, figured they were hearing things. Next morning, they were found dead. Same thing as the others."

"And they didn't have any problems in this room before?" Sam asked.

"No. No one has."

"Any changes to the room?" Sam pressed. "Any other deaths? Any... problems with the plumbing or sounds in the night or anything?"

Rachel looked at Sam like he had another head growing from his neck. "I don't know about the room, but as for the other stuff, no. No problems at all."

"Can you get us the guest registry for that day?" said Dean. "So we can interview some of the other guests."

"Well, I think the police..."

"Yeah, but we're here now," Dean replied with a smile. He turned on extra charm and could see her responding to it.

"I guess..."

"And, while you're at it, can you give us the registry for the days of the other murders, too?" Sam suggested. "Maybe there's a connection, something no one's seen."

"I don't," but then she sighed and raked her hand through her hair. "Yeah, okay. I'll print a copy for you. "

"What about pictures for all the rooms?" Sam said. "I'd like to see the differences, if there are any."

"Yeah," Rachel said slowly. She looked around the room again, eyes narrowed, as if she were seeing everything for the first time. "That might take a day or two.

"That's fine," Sam assured her. He glanced at Dean, who nodded; he was ready to get rid of her. "Mind if we wander the grounds for a bit?" asked Sam. "Get a feel for the place?"

"Go ahead. I'll go get the registries. Don't, you know, take anything."

"Ah," Dean whined, picking up some ugly ass sea creature from the mantel over fireplace. "But I really was hoping for a souvenir." He turned it over in his hand, looking at it. "What the fuck is this, anyway?"

Rachel laughed and turned to go. "Some kind of shell, I think. I'm sure no one will ever notice it's gone, but I will question your taste forever if it is." She shot him a bright smile, then left the room.

Once she was gone, Dean turned back to his brother. "What do you think?"

"I think we're going to need to come back at night," he said. "There's something going on here, but the ghosts only come out to play then."

"All right. Let's get some dinner then head back. We've got a killer to find."

***

"Nine fifteen P.M.," Rachel said, adjusting the microphone headset as she recorded her findings. or lack of. "Temperature is sixty-either degrees. Electromagnetic field, normal." She hooked her EMF200 Gauss meter back on her belt and sighed. She'd been here since the sun set, and still no ghost activity.

"I can do this," she whispered to herself. She turned the tape off and looked over the common room again. Still no ghost. Time to check the second room. "It’s the family business. So what if I haven’t been out on the field since high school? And, who cares if I’ve never does this myself. It’s just a ghost. Just a simple little ghost. No problem.”

Rachel had been around the supernatural world for all her life. Well, somewhat. Her family was in the business of researching and writing about supernatural lore. They also hunted. Visited battlefields and haunted houses, motels, whatever. Provided information to other hunters and prepared the next generation (Rachel and her brother) to take their place alongside them.

She’d been on hunts. Been to haunted places, seen ghosts with her own eyes. Helped her parents dig up the bodies and burn the bones. She’d just never done it on her own before.

No murders had been committed in the hall or on the stairs. Still, Rachel kept her infrared light in front of her and her eyes peeled. As she approached the room of the second murder, she pulled her Glock from the holster at the small of her back. If she was dealing with anything but a ghost, Rachel was screwed. The gun was loaded with specially made rock salt bullets. They might hurt other supernatural creatures, but they wouldn’t stop them. Just slow them a little.

Despite walking so slow that she was almost going backwards, Rachel reached the room of the first murder by nine twenty-three. She took out the EMF and did a quick scan, pressing it against the door.

Nothing. Normal. Which meant, most likely, there wasn't anything on the other side of the door.

And yet, the idea that there once was something there was enough to keep Rachel's heart pounding and palms sweating.

She took a deep breath. "Come on, Rachel baby. Make the family proud.”

With another deep breath, Rachel opened the door and thrust the gun out into...

An empty room.

"Right," she said, feeling stupid. "Of course. What did I expect?" Clicking the dictaphone back on, she recorded the EMF, temperature, and findings. Then, just to be through, she checked the closet and the bathroom and, the perennial favorite, under the bed.

Nothing. Nothing in the room, nothing on the EMF, nothing with an ice pick.

"Stupid nothing ghost," Rachel called, feeling stupidly brave. "Didn't think you'd bother showing your face. Probably scared." She licked her lips and climbed on the bed, bouncing a few times as Dean had earlier that day.

Oh, yeah, her parents would be real proud with her. She was acting like this was her first hunt, like she didn't know the dangers or how to handle it. She wasn't being professional, but, the truth was, she didn't feel very professional right now. This was obviously one ghost, one isolated incident that had happened to cause a ghost to rise and seek vengeance on certain couples staying in inn. It should be easy to figure out who it was and then set the soul to rest.

With a sigh, Rachel turned the recorder back on. "Nine thirty PM. I'm going upstairs to check the last room. Still no change in temperature or electromagnetic field. I think, though, that if there will be a manifestation tonight, it will be in the room the last murder took place. If I find nothing there, I'll start checking other rooms." She clicked it back off.

As she climbed the stairs to the last room, she wondered if Sam and Dean were going to show up and try anything stupid tonight. She knew they were probably reporters for one of those supernatural rags or websites. Not that she minded those papers or sites, because they often did get a lot of information right, but the downfall was, a lot of the times, they got a lot wrong, too. And those who got the most wrong were usually the ones who went out and tried to meet ghosts face to face. Rachel wasn't interested in having to save anyone from getting an ice pick in their ear tonight. Or, worse, having to calm someone down when confronted with the fact that, yes, not only was the supernatural would real, it was really, really real.

Although, neither Sam nor Dean seemed the type to panic. And Sam was a psychic. A very powerful one, too, considering how high the EMF had clocked him at. Rachel's grandfather had explained to her that about thirty-five percent of the population had some sort of psychic powers and never even noticed. They just put off everything to intuition or luck. However, about four percent of that population was extremely powerful. So powerful, what they knew or dreamed or went through couldn't be ignored.

Sam was probably that powerful. Which meant he probably wasn't investigating a few simple but unusual murders. He was probably investigating the more ghostly aspect.

And maybe, just a little, Rachel wished he and Dean was here. This was the first time she was trying to lay a soul to rest all by herself, and she wasn't very optimistic about her chances.

"No negative self-talk," she scolded herself as she walked down the hall to the last room. "You know where that kind of stuff leads. There's no reason to think you can't do this. How many stories have you heard about resting ghosts? How many lessons? Hell, you've done it before. Stop being such a pussy."

She reached the room and took out her EMF. As she pressed it against the door, she thought she heard a creak behind her.

Startled, Rachel whirled, gun out eyes wide.

Nothing.

She held her breath, listening.

Around her, the house settled. The wind groaned through the trees. The air inside stayed deathly silent.

Rachel exhaled slowly, a chill touching her skin. Her breath was visible.

Shit.

She turned. The EMF was going off.

The ghost was there.  
She took the safety off the Glock and put her hand on the handle of the door. "Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis non timebo mala quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa me consolata sunt," she whispered, as always preferring the Latin version of the oft recited Psalm.

Steeling her courage, she opened the door.

Nothing. But that didn't mean nothing was there. There was too much evidence to the contrary. The ghost was in the room and she needed to know where it was. Where it was and, more importantly, who. The Glock would deter it from stabbing her, but it wasn't a permanent fix.

She didn't close the door as she entered. Trying to do that sort of sideways shuffle that cops did on TV, Rachel crossed the room to the closet. Her breath caught at the white, flowing robes that greeted her, but they turned out to be just that: robes. Courtesy robes, to be exact.

Irritated, she pushed through them, just to make sure there wasn't anything in there. Satisfied the closet was clear, she stepped back, closed the closet, and turned.

And shrieked.

The ice pick descended the moment her eyes met his green ones, burning with a strangely intense light. His mouth was twisted into a parody of a smile and his nostrils flared as if eager to catch the first smell of blood.

All this process in an instant as Rachel screamed again, whipping her head back. It missed her ear, instead jamming into her temple then tearing through the skin of her forehead as she continued to turn.

The Glock went off and the ghost howled, stumbling back.

Blood obscuring her vision, Rachel staggered in the opposite direction, firing wildly. She squeezed off all her shots by the time she slammed into the door jamb of the bathroom. She was shaking too hard to release the magazine and reload, so she went inside and slammed the door.

"Sam, down!" she heard Dean shout. A shot was fired, and Dean swore.

Rachel wiped blood and tears from her eyes and quickly dropped the empty magazine out of the gun. She slammed the new magazine in, wiped her eyes again, then tried to open the door.

The cool metal slipped from her blood-slicked grasp. Even after she wiped her palm on her jeans, she couldn't get it to open.

"Let me out!" she shouted, frustrated as she wiped blood away again. She kicked the door. "Sam? Dean?"

The door opened, revealing Sam. "You okay?" he asked, pulling her out of the bathroom.

She was crying from the pain, tears, blood, and snot all mingling on her face. "Where'd it go?" Rachel demanded, ignoring all that and the fact she was trembling violently.

Dean was holding what looked like a sawed off shotgun. He looked pissed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Where the fuck did the ghost go?"

"It's gone, thanks to you! I had to shoot it to keep it from killing you."

"No, I had to shoot it to keep it from killing me." She wiped away blood again, then pressed her hand hard into where the ice pick had almost broken through her skull.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, and you did a bang up job too. I don't know where the ghost went. I don't know who the ghost is. I highly doubt that it’s gonna come back tonight, considering it's been shot at ten times and then actually shot..."

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He took the Glock from Rachel's hand and fired quickly at the ghost, who'd rematerialized behind Dean.

It disintegrated immediately into mist which mingled with the moonlight. It stayed there for a few seconds then disappeared.

"Great," Dean groused.

"Let's just get out of here, Dean," Sam said, his hand tight around Rachel's arm. "We're not going to get it tonight anyway. It was just a survey."

"Yeah, but maybe..."

"Dean!"

"Fine, fine. Jesus Christ." He grabbed Rachel's other arm and squeezed tightly. "We'll take you home."

"Um, maybe we should take her to the hospital, Dean. That's a really deep wound."

She yanked her arm out of Dean's grasp. "I can..." Then she swayed on her feet. "Yeah, a ride'll be good. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Sam said, but Dean just tightened his jaw and said, "Yeah, well, you owe us. You better have a damn good reason for being here tonight."

"You too."

***

They usually avoid emergency rooms if possible, but Rachel had insurance, which was a good thing. There was no fucking way Dean was going to lay a finger on her, especially if she needed stitches. He'd sewn up his father plenty of times, Sam too, but never a stranger. And never one he was so incredibly pissed at he'd probably do more harm than good.

He gunned it to the nearest emergency room, following her directions as she and Sam sat in the back. Rachel had insisted she was fine, but she was bleeding too badly to keep a good pressure on the deepest part of the wound. It'd taken ten stitches and a blood transfusion to fix her up, and she hadn't been released until nearly just before dawn.

She let them into her apartment wearily. "Do you want any breakfast or anything?" she asked, dropping her keys in a small blue bowl next to the door.

"I want answers," Dean said, but Sam just said, "Breakfast would be fine."

She nodded listlessly and went into the kitchen, both boys on her heels. Sam took the carton of eggs from her hands and set about scrambling them. Surprise on her face, Rachel made coffee and ignoring Dean as he prowled around her apartment, looking for clues as to who this girl thought she was.

Her bookshelf was full of books on English history, ghosts, demons, and English folklore. She had a subscription to "Fate" magazine; not only were the most recent editions on the coffee table, but she'd bound old issues together and made an index for them. Besides "Fate," which Dean had heard of and read in the past, she had a bunch of other ones he'd never heard of before. Most of them dealt with England or Europe; only one or two were even published in the United States. Weird.

"Dean."

Dean turned at the sound of his brother's voice. Sam had finished with the eggs and was placing them and a pile of toast in the middle of Rachel's hastily cleared off table.

"Okay, talk," Dean said, crossing to the table. He sat down and grabbed a piece of toast, staring at the girl. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rachel Adams. Who are you?"

"I'm Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean," Sam answered. He looked at her intently, as Dean did, waiting to see if maybe she recognized their name. It was possible that their father had dealings with her or her family and that would explain the interest in the supernatural.

Rachel just looked back at them. Shrugged. “Winchester like the rifle?”

There went that theory. "So. What were you doing at the inn last night?" asked Dean. "Thought it might make a good story for creative writing class or something?"

"No. I was trying to find out who the ghost was so I could lay the soul to rest. What about you?"

"The same," Sam answered.

"And now, thanks to you, we still have no idea," Den couldn't help pointing out.

Rachel wrinkled her nose at him. "Look, I appreciate you for saving my butt back there, but I wasn't exactly dead yet. The thing took me by surprise and I fucked up. I admit that. But it's not all my fault. Besides, I was supposed to be there; you were breaking and entering."

"Why were you allowed there?" Sam said.

"Well, Amanda, the manager? She's a friend of mine. When the third murder happened and there was still no clues, she figured that it might be a ghost. The area is rife with them after all, and I was the only one available to look into it."

"How did you get into the business?"

"Family business, of sorts. According to what my grandparents told me, my family have always been hunters. My great-grandfather was the first to get a college degree and use that to help him. He was a historian, same as my parents. Same as I'm studying to be.”

Dean frowned. “You go to college to become a historian and use that to hunt?”

She nodded. "My grandfather specialized in Civil War history. There are still a lot of ghosts wandering around left over from battles and the like. It was a violent era and it left a lot of damage on the spiritual world. Same with slavery. Same with the American Revolution and the Holocaust and the Crusades and everything. Everyone in my family chooses a time period and a specialty to focus on, and then we do what we can to get rid of the residuals consequences of humanity's tendency towards violence." She took a drink of coffee, then said, "You're turn."

Dean exchanged a look with Sam and shook his head slightly. He did not want to get into it now, not with a stranger. It was private. A thing for Winchesters only.

"Family business," Dean said. "Only, we're not historians and we do hunt individual ghosts."

"Basically, we look for anything that seems strange, and then go figure out what's happening," Sam put in. "Demons, Wendigos, Jersey Devils, poltergeists, whatever. If it's evil, we get rid of it."

"Why?" Again, she sounded so innocent and was actually looking at them wide-eyed like she was some kind of brown-eyed Bambi or something. Freak.

"Because, if we don't, people die," Dean answered aggressively, waiting for her to challenge him.

But Rachel just nodded and looked down at her plate. "You travel all around?"

"Just the US," Sam told her. He smirked at Dean. "We try to avoid trans-Atlantic flights. Or any kind of flights."

Dean glowered at him.

"Well, yeah," Rachel said thoughtfully. "I mean, if you're going around all over the place, you'd need to take all your weapons and stuff with you. Like a traveling..." She yawned hugely before finishing, "base of operations." She yawned against and rubbed her eyes.

"Exactly," Dean said, vindicated. "So, you're ghost hunting in that inn as a favor? Do you just naturally suck or are you out of practice?"

"A little of both." She pushed her plate away and rubbed her eyes. "I've never done this on my own before," she admitted. "I've always had family with me. But I didn't think it'd be hard. I just, you know. I knew the ghost was in the room, just not where. And then I was trying to be alert, but I got distracted while looking in the closet. Stupid, stupid, I know."

Now that she was showing the right amount of remorse, Dean didn't feel quite so pissed at her. Yeah, he wanted to get the job done and, yeah, she'd distracted them, but at least she wasn't some idiot kid out to prove something by staying in a haunted house. And he'd been a crap hunter once, too. Of course, he'd been nine when he was a crap hunter, but whatever.

"Well, just don't do it again," Dean said.

"I'm not stopping this job because I screwed up. I made a promise."

"I think what Dean means," Sam said, "is that don't go in alone again. Or ever turn your back on a haunted room."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's exactly what I meant. Anyway, if you're a historian, what's the history of that place?"

"Nothing that'd explain the murders," Rachel said, shaking her head. "It was built before the American Revolution. The owners were patriots and farmers. Husband and son both went to war, both came back. The house was sold in something like 1845 to a different family. Um... turned part of the underground railroad." She climbed out of her seat and crossed the room. Her backpack was on the floor next to the door; she opened it and pulled out a folder before coming back to the table.

"Basically, there are no deaths that would result in the type of activity we've seen. The original owners tended to die in their own beds and of old age. After it became an inn in 1910, there were three reported deaths of heart attacks, one stroke. One person fell out of a tree on the property and died three days later. A kid who was staying here drowned while on a harbor cruise with her parents. A body was discovered in the barn, murder, but was later found to have been actually killed about six miles away. There was a fire in 1972. Three people died of smoke inhalation. Um... nothing with an ice pick, and the only people whose age seems to fit the ghosts were women." She looked up. "That ghost was definitely a man."

Dean tapped his fingers on his coffee mug. "Huh. Then where the hell did it come from?"

"Maybe there's something that fits in the surrounding city?" Sam suggested.

Rachel shook her head. "I've searched. There's nothing in the entire state of Connecticut about anyone dying of an ice pick through their ear."

"Does the ice pick stay after? I mean, how do they know that's what it is?"

"The wound itself. The closest match to a weapon is an ice pick. The weird thing is, usually when an ice pick is used, it's to make the cause of death seem natural. They scramble the brains around to make it look like a cerebral hemorrhage," said Rachel. She pulled a rubber band from her pocket and put her hair into a pony tail. "This murderer didn't do that. He just... stuck it in and moved it until the person was dead. But you can still tell it was an ice pick. Like he wanted us to know."

Dean frowned and said thoughtfully, "Maybe it's not a local ghost. Maybe, somehow, it got brought here."

"That's impossible."

"No, it's not. We just fought a ghost in Toledo, Ohio, only she'd originally come from Fort Wayne Indiana," Sam said. "She was trapped in a mirror and carrying out her vengeance through Bloody Mary-like murders."

Rachel shivered. "Bloody Mary? You're kidding."

"No, why?"

"I've just... always been stupidly afraid of Bloody Mary even though there's never been any evidence she was real. I don't like finding out she is." Rachel frowned. "Did she touch her victims? Use weapons on them?"

Both brothers shook their heads, remembering the awful feel of having their eyes clawed out seemingly from the inside of their heads.

"I'm not saying this is... her," Sam said.

"It could be a similar thing," Dean said. "Ghost stuck in the mirror. There's a lot of evidence to support that they can capture souls."

The minute the words left his mouth, Dean knew. He could see a similar lightning-bolt expressions in Rachel and Sam's face.

The three of them looked at each other and smiled. "A photograph."

***

"So, what do you think?" Dean asked once they were away from Rachel's and driving towards their hotel. She'd offered to let them crash at her place until they solved this thing, and since they were always scrambling for cash, Sam had immediately taken her up on it.

"Of what? Her or the ghost?" Sam replied. He was flipping through Dad's journal, looking for any idea of how to get rid of a soul trapped in a picture. So far, there was nothing.

"The ghost's easy. We'll just burn the picture. No ghost, no picture."

"Yeah, because that worked so well with Mary. Once mirror was gone, we had a hella pissed of manifestation, don't forget."

"Yeah, well, we got rid of her easy."

Sam looked at his brother in disbelief.

Dean glanced at him. "What?"

"We got lucky, dude. I mean, you think fast on your feet and all, but let's try and go into this a little more prepared."

"Asshole," Dean muttered.

"What?"

Dean just shook his head. "Rachel's probably got some information in one of those magazines or something. After we check outta the motel, we can head back and look. But I want to be back at the inn before nightfall, whether or not she's up."

Sam closed the journal. "What have you got against her? Usually you're all over a pretty girl. Hell, you were flirting with her when she showed us around yesterday."

"I don't have anything against her."

"Like hell you don't."

"What, just because I don't have a hard-on for some girl, you automatically assume I hate her? Do you really think I'm that cheap?"

Sam grinned. "One, yeah, you really are that cheap. Two, I didn't say you hated her, just that you've been really hostile since we found her."

"I don't appreciate having to rescue the asses of dumbass civilians, no matter how nice those asses might be. I still maintain that if we hadn't had to worry about her, we'd've cracked this case wide open already."

"No, without her, we’d be stuck poring over books trying to figure the history of this place. We skipped that part because of her. And, really, she got away from the ghost herself.”

"And locked herself in the bathroom, screaming and sobbing."

He grinned again and said, "Your soft spot is showing, bro."

Dean punched him in the arm. "No. Dad taught me to always be a gentleman." He turned into the motel parking. "It's the best way to get into a girl's pants."

"You are such a dick."

But Dean just gave him that sweet smile he was so good at and parked the car. "Look, I will admit that she had the equipment. Not only was that gun loaded correctly, but this? Is a sweet EMF." He held out the small meter that Rachel had dropped at the inn.

"You are going to give that back, right?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean climbed out of the car. "Yes, I'm giving it back. I forgot to take it out of my pocket while we were at her place, that's all. Anyway, as I was saying, she's not completely hopeless, but she's a little too... academic if you ask me. What she needs is to get out in the world for a bit and see what it's like. Hiding behind books and crap ain't really doing anyone any good."

"It's not really our call, is it? It's what her family does. I'm sure she could take issue with the way our family works, too," Sam pointed out.

He could tell Dean wanted to take issue with the statement, but wasn't sure how. Because, yes, part of the comment had been motivated by Sam's usual bitterness, but, at the same time, he was just pointing out the facts.

Truthfully, though, Sam sort of agreed with his brother. Research was all fine and good, but there was something to be said about the practical said, too. Rachel knew about ghosts and ghost hunting, but that didn't stop her from freaking the moment she'd been faced with one.

"Why England, do you think?"

"Honestly Sammy," Dean said, his hand on the door to the room, "I don't give a horse's ass. Now let's get our crap, get back to her place, and put this thing to rest."

***

The picture was hanging crookedly on the wall when they arrived at the inn early afternoon. It was a family portrait, three generations. The eldest were sitting very properly, hands in their laps, dresses and suits pressed and very uncomfortably looking. Behind them were the second generation, another couple, also so buttoned and stiff that Dean had speculated right away on what had been shoved up their asses to make them that way.

"They had to stay as still as possible," Rachel answered, rolling her eyes. "It wasn't that they were that formal, but it took a while for the image to capture. Anyway, don't tell me that you guys act like clowns in your family pictures."

Dean's jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed. Rachel could tell that he was about let loose on her, and her shoulders went up defensively. She hadn’t meant to insult him. Her response was just… habit.

"Which one was your attacker?" Sam asked, cutting off whatever Dean was going to say.

"Um... Him." Third generation, standing next to his mother. Even in black and white, his eyes seemed to glower at her with barely repressed anger and an insane desire to do her harm.

She shivered and stepped away from the photograph, arms wrapped around her.

"You okay?" Dean asked, finding his voice at an appropriate level.

"Yeah. It just… it seems like he’s looking at me." She turned away.

In the mirror she saw the brothers exchange glances. Dean pointed at her then twirled his finger next to his temple and mouthed, "crazy." Sam made a face, mouthing, "asshole," back, then turned the picture so it was facing his chest.

"Why don't we take this downstairs?" he suggested. "Can I use the computer to try and figure out who this guy is?"

Rachel turned back, arms still wrapped tightly around herself. "That's fine."

They went back downstairs. Sam set the photograph, facedown, on the reception desk then sat down behind the computer. “Why don’t you two look at the back of the picture? See if there’s a family name or anything.”

Dean tore into the frame like it was a Christmas present. Rachel waited until he had the back off before shoving him aside.

“Careful,” she said. She wished she’d thought to bring some gloves. Yes, they might have to destroy the photograph if there was a soul captured in it, but that didn’t mean it was okay to mishandle it until then.

It was possible she was taking her parents’ lessons a little too much to heart.

Dean was staring at her. His hands twitched like he wanted to put them around her neck.

She flushed. “You know, as soon as Sam said something about the pictures in the room, I thought I should go through the inventory. It made sense, you know? I knew they were redecorating stuff, it just never occurred to me to look which picture went where.”

Dean frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why does it matter where the picture is? Ghosts usually have free run.”

“Mary was stuck in the mirror,” Sam said.

“You have got to tell me everything about that case.” Rachel nudged Sam so she could get access to the keyboard. She quickly found the inventory list and notes. “Um, yeah. It was in the common room, then put into storage for years. Then it went into the first murder room. Then it was put away, then the last. So, yeah, I think it might be tied to the photograph. It make sense. I mean, it’s not a normal ghost. His soul was captured and put into the picture.”

“Then how is it stabbing people?” Dean asked. “It wasn’t like he posed with the icepick. That thing almost killed you!”

Her face went hot. "He did not. It's just a flesh wound." That required stiches, but still. She moved away from the computer and went back to the picture.

Dean smirked at her.

“What?”

"A flesh wound? Look, you stupid bastard. You've got no arms left."

She grinned. "Yes I have.”

Dean leaned into her. "What are you going to do, bleed on me?"

Her skin on her back prickled. She licked her lips. "I'm invincible."

He gave in and laughed. "You're a loony." Dean pushed her gently.

She pushed him back, "The Black Knight always triumphs."

"Isn't the moral of that story that the Black Knight was a moron?"

"No, he never gives up, that's the moral," Rachel told him. "And, he was full of stupidly arrogant bravado." She crinkled her nose. "Maybe that's why you remind me so much of him?"

Dean clapped both his hands over his heart. "I'm hurt. You got me right through the heart."

"Well, I always did have good aim."

"Which you demonstrated last night."

She stuck her tongue out at him and was about to say more, when Sam said, "Can we get back to the photo? I mean, I would like to try and crack this before the sun sets and he comes back."

Dean cleared his throat and looked away from Rachel. "Right. Um, anyway, why is this dude able to get out of the portrait?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm not... sure. I do know that there's a difference in the way a mirror and a camera operates. Mirrors are only covered to avoid capturing dead souls; cameras capture living ones."

"Seriously?" Dean said. "So this guy could still be alive?"

"I don't think so." Rachel bent over and looked for a date or family name on the back. There was nothing. Still not wanting to risk getting any oil on the picture, she pulled the sleeve of her sweater over her hands. Carefully turned it over to the picture side. "Look at their faces; all faded. And the paper is thicker than the kind used now, not as glossy. Not to mention they're all stiff and formal. I mean, even when you get one of those old fashion pictures taken, no one looks like this. Not anymore. This guy's dead, but part of his soul got trapped in here before he died. And now he's wrecking his vengeance on poor, sleeping victims."

"Okay, I have a question." Dean drummed his hands on the desk. "People get their picture taken all the time, right? Little kids get it taken every year in school. Now people are taking pictures with their phones. Does that mean our souls are getting chopped into itty bitty pieces, or has everyone who's ever had their picture taken lost their soul?"

"According to what I've found so far," said Sam, "digital cameras don't steal anyone's soul. So no one is carrying yours around on their camera, Dean, don't worry."

Rachel leaned against the reception desk. "Not everyone gets their souls trapped in mirrors, either. So what's the key? Why this man and why can he get out? And why does he only kill people who are near the picture?"

"Still looking," Sam muttered. "You want to try?"

"You've tried ice pick murderers?"

"First thing. And unless this ghost was a character in the movie 'Goodfellas', nothing came up."

"Wasn't Leon Trotsky killed by an ice pick?" she asked.

Sam looked up at her, eyebrows raised to his hairline. "You know that off the top of your head?"

"I took a Russian history class two semesters ago. My parents wanted me to branch out before settling on an area of history to study." She glanced back at the photograph. "I don't remember who killed him, though."

"His name was Ramon Mercader, and I already tried that. The picture isn't the same."

"You two are freaks," Dean said.

"It popped up on the search engine, jerk," said Sam. "I'm not the one who remembers weird facts off the top of her head."

"I'm still in college. I'm allowed to know random things at any moment." She bit her lip. "Try narrowing to American ice pick murderers."

He nodded, then swore softly. "This is impossible."

"Maybe we don't need to know who it is," Dean said as Rachel went back to the picture. "Maybe we just treat the picture like we would the bones of someone who died."

"Maybe," Rachel said. Something about that worrying her, though; it didn't sound quite right.

Sam stopped searching and sat back. "It feels wrong to me," he said. "I just think that we're missing something. That we need to know who it is and where he's buried in order to really get rid of him."

"And I'm going to trust Sam's opinion on this one," Rachel said, reaching up to wrap her necklace in her fist.

Dean glared at her. "Why his?"

She hesitated, feeling the quartz pulse with the power it was soaking up from Sam, and shrugged. "I... this guy's soul is trapped, or part of his soul is trapped, then chances are the rest of him is looking for it. Shouldn't we try to put them back together and burn the picture and the bones at the same time?"

"Yes," Sam sighed, tilting his head back. "That's what's been bothering me. What happened to the rest of his soul? Where is he, and what's he doing?"

"Do either of you have a magnifying glass?" Rachel asked. She bent over the picture, studying the edges, looking for a signature or an imprint or something that might indicate who they were dealing with.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said sarcastically. "Let me just whip it out."

Sam cleared his throat and said, "Please, Dean, not here." He opened the desk drawer and rummaged through. "Um, here. Try this."

He'd found a pair of reading glasses that probably belonged to one of the receptionists. Rachel took them and used them to scan the corners and edges of the picture, figuring that was the most likely place.

"There." Dean stopped her hand and leaned over her. "It's faint, but there. Winston family, 1902."

Rachel bent over further, slowly scanning the glasses, looking for more names. "Winston," she said softly. "Plumtree, North Carolina. I wonder… Jesus!" She jerked back from the photograph, her head connecting with Dean's chin.

"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed, arms coming around her waist. "What the hell happened?"

"He looked at me," Rachel gasped. She turned and pressed her face into Dean's chest, shaking.

"You said that before," Sam said. "Maybe it's just the angle the picture was taken at."

"No, before I said it was like he was looking at me. This time, he turned his head and looked at me."

“The women he killed, what did they look like?" asked Dean suddenly.

Rachel untangled herself from him. "Um," she said, trying to think. "Um, I'm not sure. I didn’t get the crime scene photos.”

“Did you see any pictures of them?”

“Yeah, but… They looked… Long hair.” She gestured vaguely.  
“Look,” Sam said. He had their father’s journal out and open to the page they’d pasted the obits on.

All the women had long brown hair and brown eyes.

"That explains why everyone who was near the picture wasn't killed," Dean said. "Maybe the ghost can't get out of view of the photograph, and he only ever bothered to kill when the coloring was right."

"And then he killed whoever was with his victim to leave no witnesses," added Sam.

Rachel shivered. "Well," she said shakily, "okay then. I’ll go down to Plumtree and hope it doesn’t kill me before I figure out how to kill it.”

"You are so not going." Dean was firm.

Her jaw tightened. "You can't..."

"Yes, I can."

"You have no right! You're not even supposed to be here. I'm the one who's letting you work on this, not the other way around."

"You'd be dead if it wasn't for us," snorted Dean. "You've got no experience in this, and you've got no business..."

"I have just as much business as either of you! And so what if I'm new to all this? You must have been new once too, and it didn't stop you."

"I was ten when I was new, and I had my father to show me what to do. If you want to do this, then you get your father."

"He won't help me," Rachel admitted. "I asked. He said either I was ready to do this or not." He’d been trying to convince her to turn it over to another hunter. She’d taken it as a challenge.

But she was in over her head.

"Will you help me?” she asked, looking at Dean through her eyelashes. She couldn’t bear to look at him full on. “You’re right. I’m not ready to do this on my own. And I know you guys are professionals and whatever, but, dammit, this my case. It’s my first one, and I want to see it through.”

Sam and Dean exchanged.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said softly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. You can tag along. But you listen to me, you stay armed, and you don't do anything stupid. You do anything out of line, I will tie you up and throw you in the trunk of the car until we’re done. Got it?”

She swallowed. Nodded. “Got it. I’ll do whatever you say, and I won’t be any problem.”

 

He studied her a moment, eyes narrowed. "You better not be."  
***

About six hours into the drive from New Haven to Plumtree, the ghost burst through the backseat of the car and went after Rachel. The ice pick scraped over her shoulder before she was able to throw herself away.

“Dean!”

"I see it!" he shouted over his shoulder. The Impala swerved wildly as Dean tried to drive, look at the road, look at Rachel, and pull the ghost off her at the same time. “Sam!”

Sam was already crawling into the backseat. He had a carton of salt and poured it on the gost.

It screamed. Whirled at Sam, the ice pick grazing Sam’s cheek.

Sam threw more salt.

The ghost screamed again and disintegrated.

"You okay?" Sam asked.”

He grabbed Rachel’s hands and pulled her up.

“I’ve got salt in my eyes, but….

The ghost burst through the seat again. The ice pick rammed into Sam’s arm.

The car skidded to a stop. "Sam, move!"

Sam jerked back, ice pick still in his arm.

Dean fired his gun at the ghost's head. It dissolved once more.

"We need to get it contained," Rachel said. "It's just going to keep coming."

"Any ideas?" asked Dean, keeping his gun trained on the backseat.

"Yeah, stick it in a bag with salt and ward the bag." She jerked back when the ghost popped back through and went at her.

Dean shot it. "You, out of the car. Sam, we're gonna set a ward in the backseat and trunk."

"Are you going to leave me on the side of the road?" Rachel protested.

"Don't worry. Just get out."

Rachel obeyed sullenly, standing in the humid night air as the Winchester brothers salted and warded the backseat and trunk of the car. The ghost jumped out when they opened the trunk, but a few shots dissolved it and sent it back to the photo.

"You are so paying to clean my car when we are done," Dean said, bounding across the street to her when they were done. "I don't wanna see any salt anywhere by the time we dump you back in New Haven and take off."

"Fine," she said tightly. "Anything else you want me to pay for? Gas, food, lodging? How about hooker to go with it?"

Dean stepped into her, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. "Believe me, sweetheart, I've never paid to get a woman into bed."

She smiled sweetly. "Ah, so you are a virgin. Don’t worry, Dean, I’m sure…” She broke off when Dean grabbed her.

His hands wrapped around her arms and he pulled her almost off her feet. Their noses were almost touching. She could feel his breath on her face.

Rachel's heart stuttered and stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. All she could do was gaze helplessly into his eyes, her mouth parted slightly in anticipation for... something.

The moment dragged out infinitely, ending only when Sam cleared his throat and said awkwardly, "I, uh, I'm kind of bleeding over here, guys."

Dean’s hands tightened on Rachel’s arms. Then he released her. Stepped away. "Coming Sam."

Rachel's heart didn't start beating again until they'd found a motel and had checked in. Even then, it kept giving odd leaps and starts, as if it'd lost the correct rhythm forever. She was so intent on not passing out from lack of blood or oxygen--swooning, her mind so unhelpfully supplied; the word was swooning--that she barely noticed the knowing leer the desk clerk Sam requested one room, two beds. Nor did she hear the comment that provoked Sam’s indignant, “She’s our baby sister.”

She did hear Dean mutter, "Pain in the ass.” She blushed, knowing it was true. If it weren't for her, they'd still be on the road for North Carolina, and the ghost would be marking time in the picture. Although, a little voice in her head pointed out that, it was rarely as simple as that; even without her, they might have run into another problem.

Maybe.

"Don't let Dean get to you," Sam said once they were inside the room. They'd brought the picture in, too, just in case, and the boys had just finished setting up wards around it. Once they were done, Dean had locked himself in the bathroom, shower running, leaving Rachel and Sam alone.

"I'm trying not to," she replied, climbing on one of the beds. Besides the two beds, there was something that almost looked as if had been a couch in its past life. Now, it was a lopsided, cracked wooden frame with a few lumpy cushions on it. Rachel eyed it warily, hoping it didn't try to come nearer; it looked as if it had the ability to walk, either by itself or under the power of the various creatures she was certain lived inside it. She was also quite certain that Dean was going to make her sleep on it, which made her determined to at least feign unconsciousness when he was through with his shower.

"He likes you." Sam sat on the other bed, kicking his shoes off.

She smiled wryly at him. "You don't have to defend him or anything. I know I'm messing up your guys' gig. I get why he's angry, and he's probably right. You two are experts; the last thing you need is an amateur hanging around you."

Sam shook his head. "It's not that. Believe me, Dean's never complained before when a pretty girl has tagged along for one reason or another. It's just, this time, you know as much as him, which is throwing him. And, as much as he likes women around him, he really hates it when they're in danger. He's got a soft spot the size of the Grand Canyon."

"I really hate it when I'm in danger, too." She lay back on the pillows, closing her eyes. "What's stupid is I know how to fight. I mean, I've taken tae kwon do since I was six. I'm not completely useless, and yet I keep acting like it."

"I don't agree. You're not doing that badly, really. The ghost just has you at a real disadvantage, that's all. They do that sometimes." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Dean had to save my butt recently from a ghost that almost got the better of me."

Rachel opened her eyes and rolled onto her side, facing Sam. "Really?"

He nodded. "It was my first hunt in a real long time. I'd left to go to college, but then my dad went missing. Dean asked me to help out finding him. We ended up working the case my dad was on before he took off. Ever heard of a woman in white?"

"Ghosts of women who'd been cheated on, right? Kill themselves, sometimes their kids, then become ghosts?"

"Yeah. This one was picking up men who'd been, or were being, unfaithful to their loved ones. She tried to go after me. Was a real bitch about it, too." Sam shook his head. "First off, her usual MO was to hitchhike. I didn't pick her up, though; she just jumped into my car. I told her to get out, but she wouldn't listen. Then, she tried to seduce me. She wouldn't take no for an answer, or even listen to the fact that I'd never cheated on my girlfriend. And then, she stopped my heart. I would have been dead if it weren't for Dean."

"He's a real hero, isn't he?" She knew that she probably sounded sarcastic, but she didn't mean to be.

Sam took her words at face value, though, and said, "He is. Dean really believes in what he does."

Rachel sighed and stretched her arm out, resting her head on it. "Where's your girlfriend? Does she hunt with you guys?"

His face clouded and Sam swallowed hard.

She was such a fool.

"I'm sorry," Rachel said softly.

"It's not your fault." His voice was gruff. "You didn't know."

"What happened?"

He swallowed again, eyes closing. "I came home from hunting to find her pinned to the ceiling. She burst into flames."

Her stomach did a slow, sick flip. "Oh, God. What did it?"

"No clue." Sam sighed deeply and repeated something, "No clue."

"I'm so sorry, Sam."

He just shrugged. "You've never heard of a ghost or anything that does that, have you? Because I've been looking everywhere, and I'm at a loss."

"No, I haven't. I can look when I get home." She rolled onto her stomach. "I'm, um. I'm kind of in the middle of a project. I'm writing a search program. Entering all the lore from any book or source I can get my hands on. The program organizes it all, so when you type in some keywords, it’ll pull up the information you need. Or, at least, direct you to the correct primary source.”

Sam's eyes opened and his head turned towards her. "That sounds pretty cool, actually. How big is the program?”

"Pretty damn big. I’ve already got a massive server for the information, but I’m still writing code for the program itself. But, you know. I'll use that and everything else I have to start searching for you. I mean, if you want. You know, help. And to keep in touch."

He smiled at her. It wasn't a big smile, and it didn't reach his eyes, but it was a smile. "We'll keep in touch. Dean and I have never met anyone else in the business, you know? Besides, Dean hates research. He'd much rather call someone else and have them do it."

"That's fine, but remember that I'm not going to be open twenty-four seven."

"I know, you have a life."

Rachel laughed wryly and said, "Not a life. School."

Inexplicably, Sam's face darkened at that statement. "Yeah. Right."

The door to the bathroom opened and a damp, shirtless Dean walked into the bedroom. Almost as soon as he stepped inside, Sam jumped up from the bed and rushed inside the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Dean looked at the closed door, then at Rachel. "Dude, what did you do?"

"I don't know," Rachel said, sitting up. "We were just talking. I said I'd be happy to research for the both of you, if you ever needed it if I could. Because, you know, sometimes I might not have time since I have school."

Understanding flashed across Dean's face. He moved across the room and sat on the bed Sam had just vacated. "He just dropped out of Stanford. Well, a while ago, but he really wanted a... I don't know what he wanted."

"Normal life?" Rachel ventured.

"That's what he said." Dean rubbed his hand over his face.

"Did he meet his girlfriend in college?"

"He told you about her?"

"Not much."

Dean sighed and rubbed his face again. "Yeah. He did." He pulled the covers off the bed and lay down. "He liked college. I hated him there. But what happened... I never woulda wished that on him."

Rachel shook her head. "Of course not. He's your baby brother." Hesitantly, Rachel kicked off her shoes. "So. Do I get this bed? Cause, there's a couch, and I thought..."

"Like I'd trust that couch not to eat you," Dean snorted. "What with the way that ghost keeps going after you, I'm not sure you're not a magnet or something."

She rolled her eyes and crawled under the covers. "Thanks. I think." She pulled a pillow to her chest. "I'm sorry I've been such a problem."

"Look, Rachel, I don't apologies or do any of that chick flick crap." Dean rolled onto his side and looked at her. "You're not... that bad, I guess. And it's not your fault that the ghost has a hard-on for you." He leered and added, "It's not like I can't understand why."

She threw the pillow at him. "You are such an ass."

"Gotta nice one, too." He threw it back, hitting her in the face.

"Too bad your face looks like one."

"Oh, you're going down!" Dean was out of the bed in an instant.

"Dream on… Dean!" she shrieked as he went at her. Rachel barely had time to throw the covers off when Dean was over her, pillow in hand. He got a few good blows before she swiped at him with her legs, knocking him off balance. Once she had him unsteady, Rachel pushed him off her and onto his back, grabbing another pillow.

"You are such a jerk!" she laughed, pounding him.

"It's all about training, baby." He grabbed the pillow and tossed it away. Then he caught her wrists and yanked her down onto him. "How much training you got?"

Her heart started doing that strange non-beating thing again, so close to him she could count his freckles and feel his breath against her lips. "I've got... got training." Rachel licked her lips, trying to think. "I've, you know, trained." In some circles, she was considered intelligent.

Dean smiled at her lazily. "Yeah? It's good to know you're not completely useless." He rolled over, pinning her under him. "Ever actually use that training?"

He'd let go of her wrists, but Rachel had no idea what to do with her hands. She also wasn't exactly sure if they were really talking about fighting. "Um, yeah. A few times. I've been attacked on jobs with my family."

His lips curled. "Well, that's good to hear. Practicing isn't the same as actually experiencing something. When you're actually in the moment, your heart starts pounding, adrenaline's running high, your lungs burn, your head spins, and you feel like you've never been more alive than you are in that moment."

She should not be turned on by that, but she was. His words, the tone of his voice… it lit a fire in her belly that smoldered, spreading slowly through her body languorously.

Trying to ignore the burning inside, she said, "But any moment, it might all end."

"Yeah, well, that's the rush," he said with a lopsided smile. "Besides, your life might end at any moment anyway. Walk down the street, get hit by a car. Get caught in the crossfire of some fight that was never yours. Cross the wrong ghost, the wrong demon, the wrong whatever. Hell, you could slip in the shower and crack your head open. The difference is, when you're in the heat of the moment, you're more than you ever were at any time in your life. And that makes the risk all the more worth it."

Without thinking about it-and, if she had, she never would have done it-Rachel reached up and ran her hand over Dean's face, cupping his cheek. "You really love what you do, don't you?"

"I can't imagine any other life." He leaned into her hand, lips brushing over her skin. "I wouldn't want to. Fighting evil, saving people; it's important. What about you?"

"I've barely started living. My family doesn't exactly hunt, so much as go to haunted sites, figure out who's there, then find their bones and burn and salt them. It's not so much about saving people as... cleaning the world of ghosts." She grimaced. "Sometimes I wonder why we do it. My life's ambition is to get rid of all the ghosts in the Tower of London. Those ghosts have never hurt anyone, at least not in the past hundred and fifty years."

"You never know when they might start." But he sounded skeptical, like he didn't really believe what he was saying. "There's a lot of bad over here, you know. A lot of people who need help."

"I'm getting that idea." She was about to say more when Sam came out of the bathroom.

He glanced at them, rolled his eyes, and climbed into bed. "Night." The light turned off, bathing the room in darkness, lit only by the moon which streamed in through a crack in the curtains.

Dean's eyes were lit by that light, seeming to glow. "You going to be okay over here alone?" He glanced over at the bagged photograph, where the ghost, although trapped inside, was rattling and growling.

"I should be. I am a big girl."

He grinned. "I noticed. Believe me." Dean kissed her forehead in a brotherly fashion, and then the corner of her mouth in a not so brotherly fashion.

The fire inside flamed hotter.

"Night, Rachel."

Rachel swallowed shakily. "Night."

Dean climbed off her and went to the other bed. Climbing in, fluffed his pillow and lay back. He seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

For Rachel, sleep was a while in coming.

***

The next morning saw them on the road early. Dean opted not to wake up, instead letting Sam take the wheel. He sacked out in the back seat, allowing Rachel the front. She was half-asleep as well, but, thanks to coffee and Sam's steady chatter, she woke up after they'd been on the road only a half hour or so.

"So what are we going to do once we get to Plumtree?" she asked after she was fully awake.

Sam hitched one shoulder. "Find where our guy's buried. We should probably hit the library first thing, see if we can dig up an obituary."

"Maybe there's a local historical society," suggested Rachel. "We should check there, first. Places that have a long history tend to keep their records more accessible than the local library. I mean, the library works, but we might find a local historian who can tell us who this is." She sipped her coffee. "What then? After we find out who it is?"

"Dig him up, burn and salt the bones," Dean said from the backseat.

Rachel glanced back. "Morning."

He opened his eyes and gave her a sleepy smile before saying, "I've got salt in my ass."

"Lovely."

"Switch with me."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. You're the reason the salt's back here. You suffer."

Rachel rolled her eyes and handed her coffee back to Dean. Unbuckling her belt, she carefully climbed into the backseat. Her elbow knocked Sam in the head, causing the car to swerve, but she kept her balance and managed to get in the back without falling on Dean.

"There." She settled onto the seat. "Happy now?"

Dean took a long swig of her coffee. "Well, I still have salt in my ass."

She laughed. "Sounds like a problem. Don't expect me to do anything about it. You're a big boy. I'm sure you can wipe yourself."

"Yeah, but sometimes, even big boys like to have ... You know what? I'm not going to finish that sentence."

"Thank God," both Rachel and Sam said at the same time.

"Anyway, burning and salting is the way you get rid of ghosts. You should know that." Dean climbed into the front seat as he spoke, managing to make it without hitting his brother. However, once he was there, he punched Sam in the shoulder.

"What was that for?" Sam asked, shooting a glare at Dean.

"Pull over. I want to drive."

"Dean..."

"My car, bro."

"We're two hours out. It'll be faster to just keep going."

"You just want to choose the music."

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," Sam said with relish. He practically beamed at his brother.

"Right," Rachel said, leaning against the front seats. "So, what are we going to do with the picture, anyway?"

"I've got two thoughts on that," Dean said, glancing at her. He gestured for her coffee again.

With a roll of her eyes, she handed it forward.

"Okay," he said after finishing it off. "First thought it, we burn them both together. No picture, no trapped soul, no bones, not ghost. Easy as pie. But, I'm also thinking, maybe it we get rid of the source, his bones, the soul will be set free, too."

Rachel thought about it. It went against every fiber in her being to destroy and antique unless it was an actual portal of evil. She'd come across them before, or, rather, her parents had. Demons sometimes got trapped in mirrors or jewels or other objects. Sometimes previous benign religious items were perverted and used to bring harm to others. Those needed to be destroyed.

The picture maybe didn't.

But she should check with the psychic before deciding anything. "What do you think, Sam?"

Sam frowned pensively, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "I don't know. I see Dean's point, and it's not a bad one. If we reunite the captured soul with the body, maybe that'll be enough to exorcise it."

"Or, maybe we can do an exorcism," Rachel suggested.

Dean glanced at her. "Ever done one before?"

"Um, no," she admitted. "But, as part of my training or upbringing or whatever you want to call it, I've had to memorize the rituals. It was an unusual upbringing."

"Join the club," muttered Sam.

Rachel frowned at the bitterness in Sam's voice.

Dean, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and said, "Okay, Rach, you solve this for us. You're nine years old and you tell your dad that you're scared of the thing in your closet. What is his response?"

"Ward the door, give you an EMF, and tell you to call him any time it goes off," she answered. "Why?"

Dean looked at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed like he wasn't sure what to say.

"It's better than giving them a .45," Sam said.

"Yeah, but it ain't exactly saying don't be afraid of the dark, either." Dean cocked his head. "Think it's because she's a girl?"

"My brother got the same thing. We didn't get guns until we were thirteen. And, even then, we weren't allowed to keep them in our rooms. But I grew up in the same house. My parents still live there. We had plenty of time to clean it out and ward it. I didn't have to learn how to defend myself against the thing in the closet; I had to learn to differentiate between my imagination and reality."

"Exactly," Sam said triumphantly.

Dean had a different reaction. "You are really useless, aren't you?"

"Yes, completely," Rachel agreed with a roll of her eyes. "I just don't think it's a good idea to give kids guns, that's all. It's more responsible to give them a tool like an EMF and let the adults do the hunting."

"Which is how you ended up such a fantastic hunter, I bet."

"I have to ask. Do you have PMS, or are you always so hot and cold?"

Sam laughed while Dean wavered somewhere between a glare and a blush. "So, you can do an exorcism, huh?" he said shortly, putting the conversation back on track.

"Theoretically. And, if I can't, we can toss the photograph on the fire. Right?"

Dean thought about it a moment, tossing a glance at his brother.

Sam just shrugged. "When it comes down to it, after we did the body up, burning and salting is a one man job. I can help her with the exorcism if need be and keep watch that no one sees us."

"All right, then, we'll give it a try." He drummed his hands on the dashboard, bouncing a little in his seat. "Man, I need some coffee and some food. Pull over at the next place we see."

"You just want to get me out of the driver's seat so you can drive," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"Hell yeah."

________________________________________

 

The local historical society was an office inside the library, which was also a historical building. Rachel immediately felt at home when she went inside. The authors of the books all around were not only familiar, but many were friends of her parents. There were several books on genealogy as well as a computer in the corner with a sign proclaiming, "Trace Your Family Tree!" Pictures of Plumtree in the past adorned the walls and artifacts were kept behind glass cabinets and display cases.

The lone occupant inside was a woman who looked a little familiar to Rachel. When she and the Winchesters entered, the woman looked up from a document she was carefully cleaning.

"Hello. May I help you?" she asked politely.

Dean opened his mouth and took a breath, obviously preparing to speak, but Rachel stepped in front of him and said, "Hi, I'm Rachel Adams." Dean and Sam may be the hunting experts, but this was her world now.

"Dr. Margot Stern." she shook Rachel's hand.

Bingo.

"Dr. Stern, I thought you looked familiar. My parents know you. Doctors Chris and Janet Adams."

"Oh, of course. Rachel." Dr. Stern smiled and squeezed Rachel's hand. "I remember you when you were just ten years old. That was back when I was teaching at Yale. Your parents threw a barbeque. You were adorable, pigtails and pink overalls. And you carried around that stuffed bunny with you the entire day. Your parents said you'd had a nightmare the night before." She looked Rachel, who was blushing furiously, over. "You've grown."

"Yeah," Dean said, throwing his arm around Rachel's shoulder and squeezing her. "But who can forget the little girl? Got any more stories?"

Face so hot, Rachel thought she was going to melt, she said, "Dr. Stern, this Dean and Sam Winchester. We're working on a project." She glanced at Sam, who took the picture from the bag and laid it on Dr. Stern's desk. "We're trying to, um, find out what happened to this family. They're the Winston family, and..."

"Oh, yes, I know who they are." Dr. Stern crossed her arms over her chest and looked at them over her glasses again. "How did you hear about them?"

"Um, my dad. Well, sort of. It was a challenge. He gave me the picture and told me to learn everything about it I can. About the family. The boys decided to help me, because it's kind of like a treasure hunt, and Dean still thinks he wants to be a treasure hunter when he grows up."

Dean hit her on the back.

"Anyway, we found out there name and that this picture was taking in 1902 in Plumtree. So, we thought we'd come down."

"So you don't know the story?"

Rachel fought to keep the smile from her face. Instead, she worked on keeping her expression innocent as she shook her head. "No, we couldn't find anything."

"I imagine you were probably looking on-line." Dr. Stern gestured for them to sit. She pulled her own chair over to a few chairs in the corner of the office and sat down. "The Winston story made a few books about infamous crimes at the beginning of the century, but I guess it isn't very widespread. It's well known here, though."

"What happened?" Sam asked, leaning forward in his chair. He had that look on his face again, the one he'd given Rachel the first day they'd met. It was so intent, so interested. He made it seem like the only person in the world that mattered was the one he was speaking to.

Dr. Stern wasn't immune to the effect of those beautiful green eyes and innocent expression. She smiled and took off her glasses, allowing them to hang by the beaded string around her neck. "Well, the Winston family had lived in Plumtree since its founding. They were a nice, well to do, family by all accounts, went to church, paid their taxes, participated in the town activities, all that. Pillars of the community.

"Andrew Winston was born in about 1884. He was, according to the research, a loner. Very smart, but intense. His brother, John, married a local woman, Victoria, in 1902. Even though Andrew was five years older than Victoria, rumor was Andrew was in love with her."

"And she had brown hair and brown eyes and he killed her with... Ow!" he cried when Rachel stomped down hard on his foot.

"Yes, that's right," Dr. Stern said, obviously surprised. "How did you know?"

Sam and Rachel glared at Dean.

Dean just shrugged. "There's a brown haired girl in the picture that doesn't look like the rest of the family. And doesn't the story usually end with the girl dead?"

"Not just the girl," she replied. "Andrew killed Victoria, John, and their three month old child. He had gone over for supper and, afterwards, took an ice pick from his pocket and killed them all. He didn't even try to deny it. They found him with Victoria's dead body in his arms, blood all over him."

"He didn't do anything to the body, did he?" Dean asked, lips curling.

Dr. Stern frowned at him. "Young man, that's a very inappropriate question."

Rachel snorted, covering it as best she could behind her hand.

"Um, well," he stammered, "I'm just asking so, you know, our research is complete."

"No," Dr. Stern said icily. "He didn't do anything to the body."

"What happened to him?" asked Sam.

"He was hanged and buried in Plumtree cemetery, although not in the family plot. And, as the story goes, he now haunts the plot, pining for Victoria." She smiled and shrugged. "Not romantic in the least, but it gives the local teenagers a thrill. They go out there around Halloween, hoping to see him."

"Has anyone?" Dean wanted to know.

She shook her head. "No."

"Anyone else ever been killed with an ice pick?" asked Sam.

"Um, no, thank goodness." She glanced over at the portrait. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to donate the picture to the town?"

Rachel rose. "Um, I'll ask my dad. But we'll have to see. You know how much he likes objects with ghost stories attached to them."

Dr. Stern nodded, standing as well. "Of course. Tell him to give me a call sometime. I'd love to hear from him."

"I will. Thank you for your help."

They were silent until they were outside once again.

"Okay, we need to find his grave," Sam said. "We'll put the photo near it and, Rachel, you can exorcise it. But you can't start until Dean's lit the body." He put his hand on Rachel's shoulder. "It's going to keep going after you, you know. You think you can do it? Because you can get a room for the night and I'll do the exorcism."

"No, I can do it. No way I've come this far only to hide safe in some hotel room."

Sam grinned and squeezed her shoulder. "Good girl."

Dean put his arm around her again. "Do you need your bunny?"

"Fuck you."

***

"No, that ritual won’t work," Rachel said, pushing aside the beat-up journal Sam was trying to hand her.

"It worked just fine on the possessed pilot Dean and I took down." Sam tripped on a broken headstone and cursed.

Rachel grabbed his arm so he didn't fall. "Yeah, but that was a demon. This is a ghost. It’s its own soul, corrupted and stuck though it may be. There’s nothing to eject it out of.”

“There’s the painting.”

“It’s different.”

Sam shrugged. “Okay. You’re the expert, I guess. It’s just my ritual is some chanting and yours seems very complicated.”

“Maybe getting a ghost out of a painting is more complicated than getting a demon out of a body. I don’t know.” She hitched her bag on her shoulder. “I can do it no problem.”

"You sure?" asked Dean. "Because I'm sure you thought you knew what you were doing back at the inn, too."

"I'm sure. I've done the research. The research never lies.” She batted her eyelashes at him and did her best to look innocent.

That got a smile out of Dean, who masked it by turning to look at the gravestone they were passing. "Does any of this look familiar too you? 'Cause I think Rachel's leading us in the wrong direction."

"We're going the right way, Dean," Sam answered. "Remember, we passed that plot when we came earlier to set up." He pointed.

"Oh, yeah. The one that looks like a bunny. See it Rachel? Does it make you feel safe?"

She punched his arm. "I'm beginning to see why you've never had a girlfriend."

"I've had a girlfriend."

"Uh huh. And, by any chance, was her name Betty Blow-up Doll?"

"I'm shocked that an innocent girl like you knows about those kinda things," Dean said. "Is there something you aren't telling us?"

Rachel opened her mouth to make a retort and found she couldn't. Instead, she blushed, closed her mouth, and looked away. "Um, looks like Andrew is up for the night," she said, pointing to a cove of trees.

The ghost was standing between the trees, glaring at his grave not far away. The ice pick was in his hand, and his eyes were aflame. All around him and his photograph was a blessed circle of black salt, cloves, and elder. He was pacing the circle, trying to get out, snarling when he couldn't.

Rachel's steps faltered, heart squeezing painfully.

A hand rested on her shoulder. "You don't have to do this, you know," Dean said softly. "No shame."

"No, I'm fine." She looked up at him and managed a smile. "Seriously, I can do this. You dig, I chant. We finish this thing off."

"And then go for ice cream," Sam said. When Dean and Rachel both looked at him, he just shrugged and said, "I always felt that going out for ice cream should have been an essential part of hunting growing up. Ice cream's good."

Tension broken, Rachel laughed and approached the ghost. "Do you want me to help you dig for a bit?" she asked, setting down her backpack.

"Set up first," Sam said as he and Dean sank their shovels into the hard packed earth over Andrew Winston's grave. "Then we'll see."

She nodded. Kneeling, she placed her flashlight on the ground and opened her backpack. Despite having the ritual she needed memorized, she'd written it down over dinner, just in case. After all, she needed to prove to herself that she could do this, that she was good enough to do the job she'd been raised to do. And, yes, she wanted to impress Dean and Sam, but that was secondary to not wanting to be killed and actually sending the ghost out of her world and into the next.

Carefully, she took a bowl from the backpack and wiped any residual dust from it. Next, the holy water came out. She unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured it into the bowl.

"What are you doing, Victoria?" a low, anger-filled voice asked.

Rachel's hand shook, spilling some water outside the bowl. She took a deep breath to steady her hand.

"I said, what are you doing, girl?" The ghost was louder now.

She glanced up. "I'm not Victoria," she told it, even though she knew that the ghost wouldn't care. "Victoria is dead."

He snorted. "Doesn't matter who you are. All of you are nothing but lying whores who promise men the world but only put out for the one with the money."

"You okay, Rachel?" Sam knelt next to her and took the bottle of holy water from her frozen hands.

"Yeah," she said distractedly, staring at the ghost's eyes. She felt trapped, pinned to the ground by those poisons orbs.

"Rachel, look at me, okay? Rachel?"

He put his hand on her cheek and ran his calloused thumb down her jaw line.

The contact startled her, releasing her from the ghost's angry eyes. She blinked and shook her head, trying to get him out of her head. "Sorry." She looked at Sam. "I just... God, he's not even a demon."

"No, but ghosts are pretty frightening anyway." He glanced at the bowl. "What else do you need to do?"

"Um...the garlic and salt mixture goes in the water." She took out another bowl. "In this one goes the mixture in that baggie."

Sam snorted, taking it out and dumping it into the other bowl. "I really hope we don't get caught. It looks like you're doing drugs."

"Try and smoke this, and the high is all in your head," she said, smiling. A teaspoon of garlic and salt went into the holy water. She mixed it until the salt had dissolved, then rose. "I'm just going to check." Dipping her fingers into the water, Rachel stepped to the edge of the blessed circle.

"That's right, Victoria. Come closer. Come and sit with me like you used to," the ghost coaxed.

She refused to look at him, not wanting to get ensnared in his gaze again. Soaking her fingers until they were dripping wet, she lifted them out and flicked the water at the ghost.

The blessed water landed on the ghost's face and sank through him to the picture. He howled in pain and leapt at her.

Rachel gasped, jerking away.

Sam caught her before she fell. "He's going to do that, you know."

"I know. I'm fine." Her cheeks burned. She placed the bowl on the ground and turned around. "Let's dig."

It took almost an hour to dig up Andrew's coffin. An hour of digging and of listening to the ghost alternately taunting and pleading with Victoria. He promised to love her, threatened to kill her, and the more Rachel ignored him, the more violently explicit he got. Rachel probably would have finally capitulated and gone back to the car had not the Winchester brothers kept her distracted by regaling her with tales of their past hunts and entertaining her with their constant bantering insults. By the time the coffin finally appeared beneath their shovels, the ghost had become nothing but background noise, completely eclipsed by the Sam and Dean Show.

"All right," Dean said, brushing dirt off his hands. "Let's burn this mother. I am so sick of listening to him."

Rachel bumped into him with his shoulder. "At least he's not threatening to kill you."

"Dude, he probably thinks I'm John."

"I'm sure Victoria had better taste than that," Rachel assured him.

"You little..." In lieu of finishing the thought, Dean lifted Rachel from the ground and gently tossed her in the direction of the ghost. "Get to chanting and exorcising. Will it take long?"

"Five, ten minutes," she said, finding her balance. "How long will it take for the bones to burn?"

"Ghosts lose power once the bones have caught fire," Sam said. "It'll only take a minute or two. Maybe five." He pulled lighter fluid out of his bag and tossed it to Dean. "Go ahead and get started, Rachel. We'll light up the bones."

Rachel nodded nervously and turned back to the ghost.

"It's too late, Victoria. You've been defiled. You've played the whore in his bed every night like the wanton you are."

Rachel knelt in front of the circle and picked the bowl of holy water back up. "You're not a whore if you're married," she couldn't help saying.

"Please. Legalized prostitution, that's all marriage is," the ghost spat. "All women are whores, it says so in the Bible. Women are responsible for all sin. Eve ate the apple and condemned man to a life of suffering."

"Adam could have said no." Rachel smiled sweetly at the ghost. Then, taking a deep breath, Rachel started to chant, "By the virtue of the holy resurrection, and the torments of the damned, I conjure and exorcise thee, Spirit of Andrew Winston, deceased, and bid thee part." She dipped her fingers into the water and tossed the drops on the ghost.

As the ghost screamed and cursed at her, Rachel slowly walked around the circle of salt. She repeated the chant three times, tossing water on the ghost as she circled him.

"It's working," Sam said when she returned to her starting position. He pointed; in the picture, Andrew's image was bubbling and burning as if it'd been lit on fire. The rest of the photograph, though, was perfectly normal. "Keep going."

Rachel set the first bowl and picked up the second. This one was filled with peppermint, garlic, cloves, thistle, and sage. Rachel took a matchbook from her pocket. Striking a match, she lit the mixture on fire and stood.

"Your soul, once trapped, now set free," she said, once again circling the ghost. She waved her hand over the bowl, blowing the smoke towards him. "I bid thee part. I consecrate this picture, leave none of your anger trapped. Your soul is free, I bid thee..." She broke off, coughing as a gust of wind blew the smoke into her face.

"Rachel!" she heard Sam shout.

She was barely able to toss the bowl aside before the ghost, freed of his circle by the wind, was on her.

"Whore!" he screamed, trying to stab her with the ice pick. "Slut! You belonged to me! You were mine and you betrayed me!"

He was like a hurricane, a gale wind coming so fast there was no way to stop him. All Rachel could do was cover her face and ears and ride it out. Her heart thundered in her ears as she twisted underneath the too solid form, bearing his attack and hoping that Sam was finishing the exorcism.

"I bid thee depart!" Sam shouted.

The ghost screeched suddenly. He arched off Rachel, eyes wide, mouth open. A long, loud howl keened from him as he burst into flame. His molted greyness of before caught the glow of fire, turning him orange.

His eyes squeezed shut and he howled again. This time, as he screamed, green-gray mist flew from his mouth. Before Rachel's eyes, the captured soul of Andrew Winston disintegrated into nothingness.

***

It was late by the time they were officially done. It took some times for the bones to burn to charcoal and to rebury the coffin. Rachel had been singed when Sam had thrown the burning herbs on the ghost but swore she only needed some first aid and not serious medical attention. Dean didn't blame her; he knew that she wasn't exactly planning to tell her family the details of their adventure, and having two trips to the emergency room show up on the insurance would be a dead giveaway. He and Sam were able to patch her up fine and, by the time they were ready to leave the graveyard, Rachel was laughing and messing around like nothing had happened.

It was an excellent trait to have in this kind of job. Dean knew that Sam thought that his laid back attitude to life and constant readiness with a joke was just the brave face he put on to get through the day, but Dean disagreed. Things got to him sometimes, yeah, and there were nights that he couldn't sleep because of the things he'd seen. There were even things he'd done that he wasn't proud of. But, for the most part, he was driven by the conviction that what he was doing was right. Lives were saved because of what Dean did and he was proud of that. And the humor wasn't a way to deal with the darkness he saw around him; it was just who he was.

He knew Rachel was shaken by all this, but that was because it was her first time out. The fact that she could recover so quickly spoke well. Despite his initial doubts, she seemed to be the kind of person who'd do well at this kind of job. Maybe she'd never be a hunter twenty-four seven like he was, but if push came to shove, she'd be able to hold her own.

They decided to get a room for the night and head back to New Haven the next day. As before, they got one room, two beds; even though Rachel had enough money to cover her own room, none of the were really thrilled with the idea of her sleeping by her lonesome. It wasn't like roadside motels were the Hilton, and ghosts weren't the only threat to a person on the road. It was just safer this way.

Of course, it did lead to an interesting moment when Rachel came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel and a hot red blush on her cheeks.

"Forgot my pajamas," she muttered, grabbing her duffle bag. She glanced at Dean, who was too busy watching a drop of water slide down her neck to the covered swell of her breasts underneath the thin white terry cloth to crack a joke.

The blush moved from her face to her full body, coloring her pale skin rosy, before Rachel made it back to the safety of the bathroom.

Dean blinked and rubbed his eyes. The image of her lithe body danced around in his mind. The image of him grabbing the corner of her towel and yanking it off also ran rampant, and Dean seriously considered hiding out in the Impala for a while until his problem went away.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head hard. That really didn't help, but the movement brought Sam into his line of vision.

"What?" Dean said defensively, feeling heat gather in his face.

Sam shrugged. With a lopsided grin, he said, "I can't even tease you for being a pervert. You didn't say anything. Are you slipping?"

Dean socked him in the shoulder. "Shut up."

Rachel came out a few minutes later and climbed onto bed without saying anything. Her cheeks were still pink, and she didn't look at either Sam or Dean as she combed the tangles from her hair. Dean escaped to the bathroom; when he came out, the TV was on, the lights were out, and Rachel was curled under the covers, eyes closed.

If he'd been a betting man--and he was, only no one had been taking bets on this--Dean would have put good money Rachel having nightmares that night. A close second, and also almost a sure thing, was Dean's own dreams taking a rather amorous direction after almost, but not quiet, getting to see Rachel naked.

It was a good thing, though, that he hadn't actually bet any money on any of it. Turns out that Rachel slept soundly and his dreams were extremely gentlemanly. Sam, though, woke up gasping and sweating around four AM.

"What's wrong?" Dean mumbled, only half awake. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, the other stealing underneath the pillow for his knife.

"Nothing. I had a … it was a dream about Rachel," Sam said back, his voice low and rough.

Dean's eyes flew open and he kicked the covers off him, leaping out of bed. "Dude! Gross."

"A nightmare, Dean. God, you are so sick." He got out of bed and went into the bathroom. When he came back out, his face was dripping wet. "Did we bring in any salt?"

"Yeah, it's by the door."

Dean watched as Sam picked his way carefully across the room and knelt by the backpack. He could just barely make out in the dim like that his brother's hands were shaking.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. He spoke softly, not wanting to wake Rachel up. This was family business. Winchester business.

Sam pulled the bottle of salt out and stood back up. "Not really."

"Sammy..."

"Look, it wasn't anything, okay? Just a nightmare." He went to Rachel's bed and started laying a trail of salt around it.

Dean frowned. "If it was nothing, then why are you warding her bed?"

"Better safe than sorry, right?" He sighed, being careful to make the trail even as he moved. "I dreamed she was killed by the same thing that got Mom and Jess."

"Shit." Dean's blood immediately rushed throughout his body, chasing the last remnants of sleep away. "And you say that's nothing?"

"It's not Dean, calm down." Sam rose and wiped his hand over his face. "Look, I think it was just a dream, okay? A regular nightmare, not... not one of those dreams."

"Yeah, well you better be really damn about this kind of thing," Dean said intensely, getting in Sam's face. "You're talking about that thing and this girl. This is not a time for uncertainties."

"I'm sure," Sam said after a pause. "Look, it was a nightmare, but it didn't feel like a vision. I don't feel like she's in danger. It's not like Jenny, when I could feel something was wrong. There's nothing here."

"Yeah, but... that was different. That wasn't this... this thing. It wasn't the same dream. I mean, you've never had a real dream about this thing, so maybe it doesn't feel like anything."

Sam winced and looked away.

It felt like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket. "Oh man, Sammy."

He stepped away. "Don't."

"I didn't know, man. I'm sorry."

"It's over, it's in the past. And it was different." He started pouring the salt around Rachel's bed again.

"You sure?"

"Every time I had the dream before Jess died, I woke up feeling like I had a weight in my stomach. Like something inside me was dying, and I thought it was just because it was a bad nightmare and that I was afraid of commitment or something, because of what happened to Mom. And then it happened." He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I should have said something."

Dean shook his head, frustration and helplessness welling in him. He knew nothing he said would make anything better, and he hated not being able to fix things for Sammy. He was Dean's baby brother; it was Dean's job's to make things right. "You couldn't have known."

Sam finished the circle and straightened. "It wasn't the first time. I just didn't want to believe it, and because I didn't, she died."

"Sam, you can't blame yourself."

But Sam just set his jaw stubbornly, and Dean knew there was no changing his mind.

He sighed. "Okay, fine. But are you sure that Rachel's not in danger from this thing?"

"I think so." Sam crossed the room and sat on the bed. "I think I had the dream because of... you know."

"No, I don't."

"It's just that I was watching the two of you earlier. And you've been flirting nonstop since you've met her, except when you two start fighting."

"Yeah, but I always do that," Dean said uncomfortably. "If it's a woman, and pretty, I flirt."

"This is different, Dean." Sam met Dean's eyes, looking serious. "The two of you have a connection that I've never seen you have with anyone. You've been attracted to women before; you've even been seriously attracted to women before. But this is different. We've never met anyone who's known about what we do before we save them. The dynamics different, and the two of you..." He scrubbed his face with both hands. "I just started thinking about Jess. And the way she died. And Mom. Dean, what if we're cursed? What if any woman we love gets killed by this thing?"

Dean let out a long sigh and sank onto the bed next to his brother. "Well. I don't think we really have enough information to say if that's true or not."

"Are you willing to risk some woman's life, Rachel's life, on that theory?"

His head ached. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean said, "So, what? We can never fall in love with anyone?"

"At least until we find what killed Jess and Mom. I guess." He sighed heavily. "I don't know what to do. It wasn't a vision or a portend. It was just a nightmare, that's all." He shrugged. "If you want to start something with Rachel, I think you should. Don't go off my nightmares. Not this one."

"I don't..." Dean stopped. "She's got other things to worry about. She doesn't need me. She's got college to finish. And her family wants her to, like, teach or something. Be a historian in England, not drive around America. I can't just swoop in and tell her to go against her family."

"Okay, now that's bullshit," said Sam. "Look, if you want her, go for it. If you don't, don't. But don't say it's because of her family or that she's in college. She's graduating soon. And her family can't dictate her life."

"You don't go against family, Sam."

"Choosing your own destiny isn't going against your family! It's her life, not there." He glanced at Dean. "She likes research. It's not like she can't research on the road, and a million times better than either of us. She's got connections."

Dean glanced over at Rachel. She was curled on her side, facing away from the brothers, her hair the only thing visible from under the covers.

"This isn't anything you need to decide tonight, you know," Sam said. "Or alone. You could talk to her."

"Naw." He laid back on the bed. "She'd just complicate things anyway. And I'm more of a lone wolf and all. I told you about the problem with getting tied down to people. They just slow you down."

"Dean..."

"We should warn her, though," Dean interrupted. "Just in case."

Sam paused a moment then asked, "Okay. What do we tell her?"

"Ward her room, ward her bed, sleep with a firearm in her nightstand, and a knife under her pillow."

"Are we going to tell her why?"

Dean rolled onto his side and looked at Rachel's sleeping form. "Because she's not nine anymore."

***

"Okay, so, you have both our cell numbers and my e-mail," Sam said.

"And you have mine," Rachel said. "And my parent's info, right?"

Sam nodded. "You sure they'll take our calls?"

"Of course. I'll tell him about you two, don't worry. I'm sure he'll want to call you sometime, ask you some questions. He’s always trying to expand our base of contacts. And you two are the first hunters to come around in a while.”

"Well, we're the real deal, ma'am," Dean drawled in a fake Southern accent.

Rachel smiled at him. "You two sure you can't stick around for a while?"

Dean shook his head. "No. We need to head out to St. Paul, Minnesota to check out some weird deaths. You know how it is when you wait on this sorta thing."

"Yeah, people die." Rachel swallowed and looked from brother to brother. "You'll call me, right? At least once a week? Otherwise, I won't stop worrying about you. You guys do dangerous work."

"We promise," Sam said, and Rachel knew that, if anyone called her, it was going to Sam. "And be sure to send us an invitation to your graduation party. Maybe we'll be able to drop by."

"I hope so."

Sam stepped into her and hugged her tightly. "Take care, Rachel."

"You too."

He squeezed, then let go and went to the car, leaving her and Dean alone.

Rachel's heart started lobbing oddly in her chest. "So," she said.

Dean stuffed his hand in his pockets and kicked the ground, looking at the dust he disturbed. "So." He cleared his throat. "Don't forget what we said."

"Ward everything and sleep armed. I will." She bit her lip.

"And don't do anything stupid. You go hunting, you call me first. Even I can't come, I can give you advice."

"I'll be careful, Dean." Screwing her courage, she stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. "You be careful, too."

He just nodded.

Tears prickled behind her eyes. Rachel wasn't expecting anything from him, not even hoping anymore, and yet...

Dean moved suddenly, startling her. His hands came out of his pockets and latched onto her arms with bruising force. He bent down, lifting her as he did. Kissed her.

She barely had time to kiss back, to register the taste of him and the feel of his chapped lips and the way he smelled before Dean released her and stepped away. "Take care, Rachel."

He was already in his car before she was finally able to whisper, "You too, Dean."

The car started and Rachel watched them drive away, waving once when they turned at the end of the street before driving out of her life once again.

Rachel blinked rapidly and went back inside her apartment. She turned on her computer. As she waited for it to warm up, she picked up her phone and dialed her father.

"Hello?" he answered on the third ring.

"Hi, Daddy. It's me."

"Rachel. Where have you been? I tried calling you at work, but Abby said you'd taken a few days off."

"I was on a hunt, actually. Getting rid of a ghost that was hunting Amanda's inn."

There was a short pause. "Rachel."

"I had help. I met a couple guys, Sam and Dean Winchester, who've been hunting for years." She sat in front of the computer and pulled up her genealogy program. "I did fine, Dad. You would have been proud of me. I did all the research, follow all that you taught me. I even found a contact down in North Carolina, where the ghost came from."

"Tell me about it."

"In a second." She typed 'Winchester' into the search field. "First, I need you to tell me what you know about something that kills by pinning people to the ceiling then lighting them on fire."

"Why?" her father asked.

"Because," Rachel said as she opened her internet service and started hunting down Sam and Dean's birth certificate information. "My friend's mom and girlfriend were killed by something, and they don't know what it was. I'm going to help them find out."


End file.
